


Missing Him

by Janie_17



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Crying, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Loneliness, M/M, Sad Ianto Jones, Tea, Toast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janie_17/pseuds/Janie_17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>one-shot focusing on Ianto's feelings of loneliness while Jack is off with the Doctor. Set the morning before Kiss Kiss Bang Bang takes place</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing Him

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: There are a handful of other things I really should have been working on (both fanfic wise and in real life) but I did this instead. It was inspired by the poem “On Missing Them,” by Rosie Scanlan which I will put at the end for you to read bc it is amazing. All in all, it took about an hour for this to go from plot bunny to fully written one-shot. I hope you like it! 
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me; they belong to the BBC and Russell T. Davies. And the plot is pretty much all from Rosie Scanlan’s poem, so I don’t own that either.

Night time sucked. Ianto hated sleeping alone, and had gotten used to Jack being in his bed over the past few months. But Jack left. He left and Ianto was once again alone in a far too big and far too empty bed. Sometimes, at night, he would toss and turn, tangled in the sheets and unable to get comfortable, sleeping in intermittent increments and never feeling rested. Other times, Ianto would give in to the gut-wrenching loneliness that is always threatening to consume him during the day. But at work he doesn’t have time to be lonely. He doesn’t have time to be anything but efficient because it is all hands on deck, all day long. He heard Gwen say that the Rift must know that _he_ is gone, and that’s why it is being so fussy lately. _He._ She never said his name anymore. Ianto supposed it was because she had figured herself as something for the man to stay for. But, it’s in these dark moments, though, alone in an empty apartment, that the loneliness is allowed to cover him like a blanket, and he cries. But from the tears comes anger, and, on these nights, Ianto doesn’t sleep at all. After the tears have dried, he holds a pillow to his face and screams. But as heart-breaking and alone his nights are, Ianto knew it couldn’t hold a candle to this moment in time. 

__It is 9am on a Tuesday. He had been firmly told the day before not to come in before ten because Gwen was worried about him always being the first one there and the last one gone. He pops a couple slices of bread into the toaster and pushes down the lever. He prepares his breakfast slowly, taking his time with each task. Getting out the jam, milk for his tea, filling the kettle with water and turning it on. It is all done deliberately, in a manner which keeps him distracted, at least momentarily, from dwelling on the quietness around him that Jack has so often filled with laughter and warmth. The water boils. He pours it into a mug before dropping in a tea bag. The tea steeps as it sits in a little golden beam of sunlight that is streaming in from the window. He stands at the counter, waiting for the toast to pop up, and watching the dust dance in the sunbeam. He wonders if the particles caught in the light have always seemed so sad, or if he is just projecting himself and how he feels onto them. With an un-amused snort he decides, that it is definitely just him projecting. Dust isn’t sentient. It can’t be sad. Then suddenly he can smell it, the dust and the Earl Gray tea bag that he had left in the water just a little too long, and it hits him. All at once, like a lorry to the chest, he can barely breathe because of just how much he misses him and wishes that Jack was there to hold him in his arms. The pain is so much worse than at night. It doesn’t have the comfort of darkness to smooth out the edges. The wound in his heart is jagged and raw. Exposed. It is open to the elements and purely oozing with sorrow. He is so overwhelmed with the feeling that he is frozen on the spot. He only has one clear thought that isn’t just part of the jumble of every single cell in his body crying out before the toaster dings and snaps him out of it. It’s a strange thought, but even though he isn’t sure where it came from, he also feels that it is the perfect summation of that moment. He thinks it clearly above the din in his head._ _

_____I don’t know what to do with my hands. ___

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: Thank you for reading, below is the poem this is based off of. I hope you enjoyed it and please leave me a review to let me know what you think!  
> People always say that it hurts at night  
> and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am  
> is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.
> 
> But sometimes  
> it’s 9am on a tuesday morning  
> and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up
> 
> And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much  
> you don’t know what to do with your hands.
> 
> — 'On Missing Them' - Rosie Scanlan


End file.
